Our current congressman, Byron Donalds, is running for the governors office. When I heard the news, I looked into who the declared candidates are to replace Congressman Donalds and found the field filled predominately by candidates who’ve run and lost in previous elections outside the state. Presumably because they smell blood in the water with no incumbent candidate to face off against.

I don’t think you need to be a life long resident of SWFL—or even Florida for that matter—like myself, but you should have truly lived within the district for at least a couple years and grasped the issues and way of life of its residents. Not skirting by on the fact you only need to have ‘lived’ in the district one year prior to taking office—which could just mean you’ve rented an apartment or bought a beach front condo. I worry that many of the candidates, while well intentioned, bring with them a sound understanding of party politics back home—wether that home be Chicago, New York, North Carolina, et c.—but not a personal understanding of our home and her issues here in sunny, coastal Florida.

I fear most of them have never lived through a major hurricane. Thankfully because we’ve been blessed with a quiet year—especially after Ian. I fear most have never experienced the devastating, lasting effects that water releases from Lake Okeechobee, down the Caloosahatchee River, and out into Pine Island Sound and the Gulf have on our environment, tourism, and retirees. All of whom are the life blood of our economy. I fear many have heard or read the news articles about the inevitable explosion of red tide that follows these releases. How it kills our fish and shellfish stocks that are already a shadow of what they were just 20 years ago. How the carpeting over of our canal systems with blue-green algae—especially in Cape Coral—chuck out the possibilities of outdoor activities and force those in their nearby homes, or the many of us with asthma and COPD, to flee as the noxious fumes permeate their closed windows and doors. I fear many have not witnessed the devastating reality of our world famous beaches with their world famous sea shells replaced instead by organs, fish corpses, and pollution who’s presence and pictures draw comparisons to the trenches and No Man’s Land of WWI and who permanently strangles our tourism season and economy like that of an invasive python suffocating whats left of our native species. I fear the most visible and lasting reminder of all, the flushing away and replacement of our picturesque and turquoise waters with black and copper colored sludge that pours over the Franklin and Ortona Locks like clock work during rainy season, thanks to the artificial connection of Lake Okeechobee with the Caloosahatchee River via the intercostal waterway and severing of the sheet flow from Lake Okeechobee to the Everglades, is not present in their heads or on their minds when they give speeches and proclamations for how they would help and serve us.

Everyone can agree that season here is a shadow of the economic engine it used to be prior to the pandemic scale devastation red tide grew to bring us. Replaced in part, instead, with the devastating, permanent destruction of our region by rampant low density urban sprawl and development into our flood plains and few remaining wild places within Lee and Collier counties. In my 25 years I have never seen the explosion in construction that has come to us within the last several years. Where once stood a floodplain / pine tree stand off Gladiolus and Summerlin, along with a local and longtime produce market, is now a cookie cutter development that floods from a minor shower. On the other side of the overpass, the trees have been cleared for a self storage facility and next to it the palm tree farm has been replaced with a Florida mountain of dirt that will inevitably be more cookie cutter homes. The pine trees along Summerlin road between Lakes Park and Gladiolus have been mulched to make way for apartments, car washes, senior living, and warehousing. My entire life, the looking out the window while driving along Six-Mile Cyprus and Ortiz between Michael G. Rippe and MLK, you’d see little more than pine trees, one of our best kept hidden gems—the six-mile cypress slough, some random commercial spaces, and finally a very sweet Hispanic lady who sold the best tamales from a cooler out the back of her car or under a tent. Now when you look out your window, you see across the Eastwood Golf Course and then turn your head and have your jaw drag across the road as you see dozens of apartment complexes around the counties number one leisure destination. The county prison. New warehouses tower over them, and where the highway was once hidden from view by pine trees, the trees have now been felled. Haphazardly replaced by apartments and parking lots. From sand traps on the golf course you can practically see the Forum. The same pattern has been repeated off Alico, Treeline, and now along state road 82 into Buckingham and out to Lehigh. What was once rural country, where people could escape the urban sprawl and grid lock traffic of town, where our endangered cougars and black bears could get by as their old homes were replaced with concrete and asphalt, has now been replaced with the epicenter of cardboard construction and tooth pick homes. Don’t get me wrong, I know there are some quality builders out there. Flying overhead, I’ve seen the rare concrete and block home or apartment but many still use lumber framing and sheathing. Albeit, far better quality than before thanks to updates to our building codes.

This isn’t the first boom or economic shift our region has seen. For those of us who’ve lived here far longer than I have been alive, they will remember when Naples was intercrossed by sand and dirt roads. The construction of Cape Coral and its record breaking miles of salt and fresh water canals. When gladiolus fields filled the area, giving gladiolus road its namesake and its cross road, A&W Bulb—named after one of the major companies that farmed gladiolus flowers. When cattle were ran down from the centre of the state—who’s lands remain flood free thanks to the Cody Scarp and Lake Wale’s Ridge—and put on boats from Punta Rassa to Sanibel where they remained in quarantine and shaded by clouds of mosquitos so thick, it darkened out the sky before being sent to Cuba for slaughter (though I’d wager no one personally remembers that part of our areas recent history). The significant earthworks and canals built to lay the foundation of Naples expansion to the east as Miami expanded to the west, meeting in the middle at what was to be the entry port of America. An airport intended to be larger than Atlanta International that would handle the air traffic and air cargo demands of a megalopolis that would rival even LA or NYC. At least until efforts to merge the urban centres were blocked by environmentalists. The scars of these earthworks still exist today on the outskirts of Naples. A visible and lasting reminder to those elected or otherwise who’s role it is to safeguard our state for future generations and to protect those areas that have already been developed from the consequences of over construction without the underlying infrastructure or capacity to support it. Any future development can only be in one of two main areas. Those low lying wetlands and flood zones that absorb the brunt of impacts from major storms or those areas uphill who’s paving over will lead to more flash flooding downhill without foresight and engineering to protect todays residents from tomorrows.

My statements on the environment should not be misconstrued as an abject affront to economic development and prosperity. Simply a eulogy to what has been and never will be again. A reminder of the Florida we’ve lost and which future generations will only learn of from the stories we pass down. Like my father did with me. He would tell me how shrimp were once so plentiful, he could cast net for them as a boy, off the Sanibel Lighthouse, and fill a cooler within an hour before selling them to tourist vacationing on Fort Myers Beach with tomatoes and onions to make homemade ceviche. How my grandfather was sued by so called environmentalists for clearing out the old nets, engines, and sunken boats that filled Matanzas Pass when he built the docks and marinas from what is today the Dixie Fish Company and Doc Fords down to the fuel bunkering station on San Carlos Island. How my father accidentally cut in half the roof of the old boat storage building next to Doc Fords, as a kid, because he had the forklift boom extended too high and wasn’t paying attention as he drove through the building. A lasting memory of my family’s impact on the region for those that saw the two parallel lines that ran the length of the roof of the old boat storage building while going over the Matanzas Pass Bridge. Which stood until recently when the building was torn down and replaced with the new Gulf Star Marina automated boat storage building. He told me how he had to walk uphill, both ways, fighting off bears and Calusa Indians, using nothing more than candle light to see as Thomas Edison hadn’t yet brought electricity to us or his estate. Although, I think that last story might have been a bit facetious. I love you dad.